


Far Too Late to Run

by proserpinasacra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, prophet feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proserpinasacra/pseuds/proserpinasacra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Three. <br/>The day you fall in love, his mouth will spill your name. He will repeat and repeat. He will not touch you. He will watch your hips, study whatever ample you have, will ask to watch you dance. When you turn to leave, he will use your name like a choke chain."<br/>- Jeanann Verlee</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Too Late to Run

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lessons on Loving a Prophet](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/20347) by Jeanann Verlee. 



You’ve been writing for him. Frantically scribbling his honey-smooth words into a leather bound tome of a book, your fingers aching to keep up with him. He speaks quickly but clearly, and his force and utter passion shine through. He is determined to spread his word and shining bright with hope.

You love him ardently. It's a mistake. There has been nothing in your life so perfect and sparkling, bubbling up from the inside with idealism. He will fix your ramshackle world; of that you have no doubt. But he’s more. He’s gentle, sweet and protective and the smarter half of your conscious tells you to run before he’s sucked you into his gravity entirely. The other half vehemently disagrees. You will love him because of and despite the fact that he has given himself wholly to his cause.

“Meulin.” You write the ‘m’ when it sinks in. There’s a moment you have to take to will your olive blush down- you are far too old for that, stop- before meeting his beautifully carmine eyes. Your throat is dry as you try to respond.

“Yes?” He’s still staring at you and how you’d love to drown in that gaze, have everything shrink down to him and him and nothing but him.

“Meulin.” He says again with a small smile, a confirmation that you are fully there and not still wrapped in your writing. It happens. “Meulin, fetch that for me?” He points at a shred of fabric on the other side of the tent; it’s closer to him than you. You’re sure the look you give him is mean, but you stand to do it anyways, relishing in the lengthening of your body after being curled into yourself to write. Perhaps that was why? You wonder how much about you he sees about you, and how many he bothers looking at like that. Either way, you trace your way across the tent, fully conscious of his gaze on you. It’s the opposite of imposing, though, and you find yourself relishing in his attention. All too soon you’re back in front of him, holding the piece in offering.

“Meulin.” It will always be perfect, your name on his lips. “Meulin, it’s the colour of your eyes.”

He laughs quietly, a low rumble that sends you soaring. And it is. That very same deep forest-reminiscent colour. He wraps it around your wrist, knotting it loosely. “I thought you could use it for your hair, though I’d be sad if you took to tying it up often.” He stands now, inches from being pressed to you, and threads a hand through your wild mass of curls. You are frozen. Pinned to place under his gaze and it feels like you’re stuck in the liquid state between dreaming and waking. “It’s too beautiful to contain. But that’s true for the rest of you, as well.” He watches for your reaction, which you’re fairly sure is wide-eyed wonder. You’re far too focused on him to monitor yourself. When you say nothing he continues, looking a bit less sure of himself now. “Beautiful. Graceful, wild, fierce, and passionate. It’s what I… What I love about you.” Every piece of you strains toward him, but you’re bound by the spell of his voice, locked and beholden to his words. “Watching you move, live and breathe is like a contained hurricane and I’m  _fascinated_  by your storm. You’d be a- a lovely dancer.”

He’s lost it now, you know, his spell has been broken by the waver in his voice, the small reminder of his mortality. The half of your self that warned to run kicks in and you bolt, your hair whipping behind you. All you know is that for all this was your fantasy, it is uncharted territory and truly dangerous water. And you have never been fond of water. “Meulin.” You freeze again and blast it, everything about this man that can reduce you to nothing more than a startled doe then reign you back in as if you were collared. “Meulin, I love you.”

When you run now, it’s towards him. And then you’re in his arms. You’re kissing. And you’re his.


End file.
